


Source

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Glorfindel leaves his lyrics lying around.





	Source

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ulan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulan/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for tagulansahulyo’s “28. Band -- Erestor/Glorfindel” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/161379570810/au-prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He used to always stay up all night at the after parties, even though Erestor never did, even in their early days. But Glorfindel’s gotten to the point in his life where he’s had enough mayhem for a lifetime, and the fawning of fans has gotten old. The liquor’s old, the rehashed blaring music is too much for his ears, and he can’t take the same old stories Daeron always tells. So he shows his face just for good will, toasts with a few groupies, and then retires before the alcohol really hits him. 

Every hotel’s the same. He gets off the elevator to find the bouncers already outside three doors—one for each member—and he has a split second where he thinks of entering the _wrong_ one—he could probably get away with it, though he’d just be shooed right out. But he’s not a conniving sort of person, so he goes to his own door and meanders through. He keeps hoping they’ll get bumped down to sharing. Maybe then it’ll be more like when they’re in the studio, and he has a shot at sitting next to Erestor on the couch, maybe even Erestor falling asleep on his shoulder after a particularly long session. Erestor’s at his cutest when he’s overworked enough to actually show up in just pajamas and a hoodie and slump over on the spot. 

In the cramped hallway of his room, Glorfindel kicks out of his shoes, and Erestor’s voice calls, “This is early for you.”

Glorfindel stiffens immediately. He glances towards the common area, where the sound came from, and shrugs out of his jacket as he returns, deliberately casual, “You should come with, sometime. Everyone wants to see the lead singer—not get stuck with the drunk drummer.”

Erestor answers dryly, “I’ve never had Daeron’s taste for attention. But I’m surprised they haven’t got the guitarist all night too, when he’s clearly got a wild side.”

Down to his trousers and tee, Glorfindel finally makes his way into the common area, already asking, “What’d you mean?”

He snaps his mouth closed a second later, halting when he actually gets sight of Erestor, perched gracefully atop his couch, sitting on both folded legs with a large notebook open atop his lap. He’s already changed into a loose shirt and flannel bottoms for the night, a deep blue colour to compliment the dark hair spilling artfully over his shoulders, and normally, Glorfindel would ogle that—would drink in everything about Erestor’s handsome body, posed in _his_ room. But when Glorfindel registers the notebook, everything else slips away. He’s sure his face is paling.

Erestor lazily drawls, “I’ve always thought you quite the lyricist, but there’s something so interesting about seeing your notes in their raw form.”

Glorfindel mumbles numbly, “Thanks,” and desperately hopes that Erestor hasn’t actually read past the first page.

Like reading his mind, Erestor pointedly flips the page and announces, “I particularly like this one, with the annotation that I should sing it...” he pauses to read directly from the page: “‘in Erestor’s hoarsest voice, as though he’s spent all night giving me head.’” Then Erestor looks up again, face horribly neutral, his dreaded cool piercing Glorfindel worse than shouting ever could. Glorfindel doesn’t know what to say.

After a few minutes of tense silence, he manages to weakly try, “People always go for lead singers.”

“Fans do,” Erestor concedes. “Usually not the other members of the same band.”

In a small voice, Glorfindel counters, “Well, I’ve always been your biggest fan.”

Erestor continues boring into him for another few seconds, then glances back to the book and idly flips through more pages. He muses as he goes, “Apparently so, because it seems every song you’ve ever written for us has actually been about fucking me.”

“Not every,” Glorfindel instantly corrects. But then he wavers and finds himself admitting, “Some are just about loving you.”

Erestor’s gaze rises again. He lets the pages fall flat. And he tells Glorfindel quietly, “If I’d known that, I could’ve sung them with more feeling.”

Glorfindel doesn’t know how to take that. And he doesn’t want to push his luck by asking. So he just stands stiffly in place, wondering how the hell he could’ve been so foolish as to leave his notebook sitting out. It’s not as if they don’t occasionally visit each other’s rooms. He doesn’t know what Erestor originally came for, and now it doesn’t matter. He wonders vaguely if he’ll ever be allowed to write songs for them again. 

After a long moment of Glorfindel just agonizing, Erestor rises from the couch. He climbs to his feet like a cat, captivating in every little movement, from the way he bends to set the notebook aside to the way his long legs stretch out before him, back arching as he straightens. He comes towards Glorfindel in slow, measured steps, with the sort of burning sternness on his face that’s so uniquely _him_. Glorfindel’s written a song about that very look, with a few hidden metaphors his notebook explained meant he wanted to see it most amidst his sheets, with Erestor sweating and straining under him.

Erestor stops when he’s close enough to touch, his bare toes right between Glorfindel’s, and he murmurs, “I can’t give you head when we’ve got a concert tomorrow.” Glorfindel’s throat runs dry, lips parting, and Erestor’s eyes fall to them. “...But even if I don’t have the energy for after parties, I’d still like to be tired out enough to crash hard.” One of his slender hands lifts to splay against Glorfindel’s chest, and Glorfindel’s heart clenches right beneath it. 

He surges forward without warning, unable to resist, because he’s wanted Erestor _so long_ he can barely stand it. He still half expects Erestor to pull away, because for all the excitement of their lifestyle, Erestor’s been the picture of propriety to the end. Yet he opens his mouth for Glorfindel now, and his delicate fingers slip into Glorfindel’s golden hair, making Glorfindel moan against him. Erestor tastes like cherries and the sort of giddy, bubbly endorphins only Erestor’s ever given him. He traces every last nook and cranny of Erestor’s mouth, mapping it all out, just in case he never gets this chance again, and he needs to write a song about paradise. 

Erestor pushes away first—Glorfindel probably never would. Erestor has to shove him back because he’s wrapped both arms securely around Erestor’s middle. Breathless, Erestor whispers, “Your songs were always my favourites, even if Daeron’s won all the awards.” 

Flattered and reeling, Glorfindel blurts, “You know, a guitarist really doesn’t need a soothed throat—we can always put that to use.”

Erestor finally _laughs_. It’s rare enough to make it _special_ , something Glorfindel treasures, like the sweet look on Erestor’s face when he lets mirth overtake him. Glorfindel presses their foreheads together and just _soaks_ it in, even as he starts tugging Erestor towards the bedroom. 

Erestor obligingly follows, still encased in Glorfindel’s arms.


End file.
